| General Fiction posted July 28, 2025 | Chapters: |
...11 12 -13- 14... 
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Eternity in an hour
A chapter in the book Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 13
by tfawcus
| Background Dmitri, a 17-year-old, suffered from catatonia after his twin sister, Mira, was killed. Elena, his carer, fostered his talent for art, and he is training to be a war artist. Leila works for Elena. |
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Could such moments last forever? Perhaps, if it were not for the infernal mosquitoes. As the sky poured the last of its light into a copper cauldron, and night chills swept across the lake, Dmitri and Leila walked arm-in-arm back to the lodge, scarcely aware of the nightjar's call and the swoop and dive of pipistrelles.
Once inside, they regained their senses, and not a moment too soon, for Elena was in the hall, drawing the curtains against the dying day.
'Thank goodness! I was about to send out a search party. Where on earth have you two been?'
They stood like a pair of recalcitrant children, hanging their heads in shame, or was it in an attempt to hide their sheepish grins? Either way, Elena would have had to be blind not to notice the change.
'We walked back, along the Birch Road and were ambushed by a ghostly horseman. We were lucky to escape with our lives,' Leila said.
'Not to mention that vindictive water sprite,' Dmitri added.
'Enough of your nonsense. I was worried sick. Still, all's well that ends well, I suppose.' She pulled the last curtain across and added, 'And what did you do with my bicycle, Dmitri?'
'I left it chained to the railings outside Baba Roza's café. It'll be safe enough until morning. We couldn't both ride back on the old boneshaker, could we?'
'On your head be it if some roughneck pinches the wheels. Then you'll have to run the gauntlet of the Rusalki every week. Never mind. You'll need to toughen up if you're going to be a war artist.'
Leila edged closer and put her arm around Dmitri's waist as she absorbed the implications of that last remark.
'You, too, young lady. Now stop your canoodling and go through to the kitchen. There's a beef and potato stew on the range that needs dishing up.'
The meal took place without much conversation. Elena asked about the ghostly horseman, and on being told that it was Major Kolt, she almost choked on her stew.
'Him? Ghostly? A bit strange perhaps, but his life hasn't been easy. He's a good friend of Pavla's. Did he tell you that?'
'We didn't spend much time on chitchat. He fell off his horse and broke his arm. At least, I think he did. Anyway, I improvised a sling. It was getting late, so he didn't hang around.'
Dmitri and Leila exchanged surreptitious glances throughout the meal, and Elena didn't take long to pick up on it, and she didn't intend to tenir la chandelle, as the saying goes.
'There's a jar of apricots on the top shelf, and cream in the fridge if you want it. Help yourselves. I'll be off now. I've letters to write, and I have to make an early start in the morning.' She might have added, 'I'll leave you two lovebirds to yourselves,' but she didn't.
After she left, Dmitri looked deep into Leila's eyes and took her hands in his. 'Do you think she knows?'
'I don't care if she does.'
'She might, though.'
Leila shrugged and, standing on her chair, reached on tiptoes for the apricot jar. She almost got hold of it, but it slipped from her hand. Dmitri lunged across to catch it, toppling the chair as he did so. One moment, she was poised like an angel on top of a Christmas tree, and the next, she fell with the grace of a dying swan and came crashing down on top of him.
She raised herself on hands and knees, straddling him with the same mix of grace and abandon that had undone him since the beginning.
'Well done! You saved the apricots,' but as she said it, her voice trembled in a way that had nothing to do with the jar of fruit.
She gently lowered herself until he could feel her breath on his collarbone and see the faint pulse at her neck. The jar slid from his hand and rolled across the floor. She stopped inches above his face, poised tantalisingly, as if daring him to make the next move.
He reached behind her neck, pulling her towards him, and for the second time that evening, their lips met. Not hungrily, not urgently, but with a reverence that sent wild tremors through their bodies.
He buried his face in her neck, breathing in her animal essence, but she pulled away from him. 'Not here,' she said softly.
What passed between them upstairs remains, as it should, behind closed doors. Yet the moment belonged to neither of them entirely. It was as if time itself paused to witness their intimate expression of love. Their bodies moved gently, without hurry and without shame, guided by a tenderness that needed no words. Afterwards, while Leila lay in contented disarray, Dmitri traced the soft curve of her shoulder with his lips. Her fingers found his beneath the blanket, and he imagined an eternity of lying like this, with her heart beating against his.
'I don't want this to end. Not ever.'
She didn't answer, but her fingers tightened around his, as if she was anchoring herself to the moment.
***
Alas, even when infinity lies in the palm of one’s hand, eternity seldom outlasts the hour.
Dmitri woke to the pale light of dawn with a delicious sense of well-being. He slipped out of bed quietly and pulled on his clothes. Leila still slept, with her dark hair fanned across the pillow and one arm resting over the hollow he’d made. Before going downstairs, he kissed the soft space above her temple. She stirred but didn’t wake. Or maybe she did, and only pretended to sleep.
Elena was already in the kitchen with the kettle boiling and porridge on the stove. She stirred slowly, adding a pinch of spice, and said, ‘Sleep well?’
He grunted, took the tea caddy from the window ledge, and made himself a pot of tea. Then he shuffled across to the stove and stuck his head over the porridge pot. ‘Mmm... smells good. What’s in it?’
‘Cinnamon and cranberries. Want some?’
He grunted again, but with a little more enthusiasm this time.
‘Have you seen Leila on your travels? Her bed’s made, and her room’s empty. She must have got up early this morning.’
Receiving no reply, Elena looked up sharply. Dmitri’s face had turned crimson.
She pursed her lips and sighed. ‘Oh, I see.’ She hesitated as if unsure what else to say, then waved the porridge spoon in the direction of the dresser. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to put that jar of apricots back on the shelf for me.’
She had already turned back to the stove when Leila entered the room, slightly dishevelled and wearing Dmitri’s dressing gown. She walked up behind him, massaged his shoulders, and leant down to kiss his ear.
Elena‘s body stiffened. Without turning to face Leila directly, she said, ‘Porridge is on the stove. Help yourself if you want any.’
The two lovebirds scarcely registered as the back door clicked shut.
***
Once outside, Elena removed her apron, ran her fingers through her hair, and took several deep breaths. She had known it was coming, but hadn’t expected it so soon, nor so openly, but the sound of a car stopping by the front gate prevented her from dwelling on it. A man in a navy-blue jacket emblazoned with the Ukrposhta logo came up the driveway carrying a parcel and whistling cheerfully.
‘Is that for me?’ Elena said. ‘How exciting! It looks as if someone has remembered my birthday.’
As she signed for the parcel, she said, ‘If you're going back down to Velinkra, I don’t suppose you could give a young lad a lift, could you? He had to leave his bicycle there yesterday afternoon.’
The postman hesitated, then said, ‘Well, it’s against regulations, but seeing’s it’s your birthday and nobody’s about, I think we can risk it.’ He gave her a broad grin and winked. ‘By the way, there’s this letter too. I brought it up to save you going down to the front gate.’
‘Wait a minute. I’ll go inside and fetch him.’
She opened the back door and called out, ‘Dmitri! If you’re quick, the postman can give you a lift into town to save you walking. And one other thing—Madame Miret rang to say she’d like you to drop by to see her again today.’
‘Hang on a sec! I’ll grab my things.’
A couple of minutes later, he rushed out, clapping his cap on his head and slinging his satchel over his shoulder. He stopped to give Elena a quick peck on the cheek. ‘You’re my saviour,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much.’
Her eyes glistened with tears, although she managed a smile as he vanished down the driveway—a boy in love, barely out of childhood. She glanced down at the letter and frowned. It was addressed to Leila.
 Recognized |
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Footnote: tenir la chandelle is a French expression meaning 'to hold the candle'. It refers to the awkward situation of being alone with a couple, feeling like you shouldn't be there. The expression originates from a time before electricity, when couples would require someone to hold a candle to provide light during romantic moments, often making the candle holder feel like an unwelcome third party. (I hope that throws some light on things!)
Characters
Dmitri, a teenage boy recovering from catatonia (a state in which someone is awake but does not seem to respond to other people and their environment).
Mira, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena, a volunteer carer looking after Dmitri and aiding his recovery.
Leila, a foreign girl employed by Elena.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher.
Andriy Kolt, an army major.
Setting: Somewhere in Central Europe.
British English spelling and grammar are used throughout.
Thank you for reading and reviewing. I welcome honest, constructive criticism.
Image: The Kiss, by Francesco Hayez 1859
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Characters
Dmitri, a teenage boy recovering from catatonia (a state in which someone is awake but does not seem to respond to other people and their environment).
Mira, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena, a volunteer carer looking after Dmitri and aiding his recovery.
Leila, a foreign girl employed by Elena.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher.
Andriy Kolt, an army major.
Setting: Somewhere in Central Europe.
British English spelling and grammar are used throughout.
Thank you for reading and reviewing. I welcome honest, constructive criticism.
Image: The Kiss, by Francesco Hayez 1859
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© Copyright 2025. tfawcus All rights reserved.
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